Shades of Gray
by Max452
Summary: Jordan, Peter, and Woody investigate a pair of hideous murders.
1. Default Chapter

Title: Shades of Gray 

Author: Max Tyler (a.k.a. Max452)

Email: Max_01_09@yahoo.com

Rating: R

Spoilers: Pandora's Trunk Pt 1 & 2.

****

Disclaimer: _I do not own any Crossing Jordan people or places. I do not make any money off this, it is strictly for enjoyment._

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She sliced through the man's flesh, cool from the morgue's refrigerator, through the yellow greasy subcutaneous fat. Dr. Jordan Cavanaugh cut through the ribs, and lifted away the breastbone, to reveal the heart and lungs.

She examined the heart carefully, and shook her head, "No mystery of cause of death here. Myocardial infarction. Doesn't look like this was his first, either."

Dr. Peter Winslow, who was in the autopsy lab with her, shrugged, "So... death by fast food?"

Jordan shot him an irritated look, "And you're here, why?"

Peter held up a placating hand, "We have to go... now that you're finished there. Got two bodies waiting patiently for us."

Jordan nodded, peeled off of her gloves, and shucked off her gown, "Where?"

"An apartment on Howes Street." Peter replied.

"Okay. Give me a second, then meet me down in the parking lot."

Patrol cars marked which apartment on Howes Street that Jordan and Peter needed to be at. She parked behind one of them, and climbed out, carrying some of the various equipment they would need.

She smiled as she watched a familiar face come out of the apartment, and made his way over.

Detective Woody Hoyt, a homicide detective for the Boston Police department, and a friend of hers.

The day was warm and sunny, the promise of summer in the air. It was too bad that there was two people in that apartment that couldn't enjoy it. 

The best Jordan could do was to find the person that committed the crime.

"Hey Woody. What do we got?" Jordan asked.

Woody ran a hand through his hair, "Hey Jordan. It's not pretty in there. Seen worse, but still... anyway, the vics are Chris Hammond and his girlfriend Jaime Black." 

They walked back to the apartment, Woody lifted the yellow crime-scene tape, and they went inside.

"Holy shit," Peter muttered, "Well, these two didn't die from any myocardial infarction's. That's for sure."

Jordan nodded silently, taking in the scene in front of her.

They were standing in the living room. Chris Hammond and Jaime Black were sitting in the middle of the room, tied to wooden kitchen chairs. 

Both of them appeared to have deep cuts all over their bodies, arms, legs, torso, face, which created a modest amount of blood underneath their chairs. But most of it probably came from the slash across their throats, probably the wound that had killed them.

Jaime Black had probably a pretty woman before someone had taken a knife to her. But now all Jordan could see was shoulder-length blond hair, the ends stained crimson. A mutilated face, and body. 

Jordan pulled on a pair of gloves and began to examine Jaime's body. Peter did the same thing with Chris Hammond's.

Crouching beside the chair, she examined it carefully, "From the bruising on her forehead, I'd say she was struck with some type of instrument. A single blow, and the weapon probably wasn't too hard, because it didn't cause too much damage. It was just meant to stun her," Jordan turned her attention to knife wounds, "Judging by the coloration of the wounds...the blood rising to meet the surface, she was alive when all of them were inflicted. It was the single slash across the throat... that killed her," Jordan looked up, "They were tortured."

Woody's face blanched, "Great."

"You've got basically the same thing over here... except ole' Chris here took two or three hits to the head. He was probably harder to subdue." Peter shrugged.

Jordan tested Jaime's elbow, "There's no rigor mortis. They've been dead about five or six hours," she looked up at Woody, "Who found 'em?"

"Jaime's younger sister, Stephanie. Nineteen-years-old. Apparently, she and Jaime had plans today, Jaime never showed. Came over here, and found this."

"Is she still here? Can we talk to her?" Jordan asked.

Woody shrugged, "Yeah. But I don't know if you'll get anything helpful out of her. Kid's pretty freaked out."

Jordan standing, cast a glance behind her at the bodies, tied up, and slaughtered. Like cattle.

"Gee, I wonder why?" 

Stephanie Black was a pretty girl, with her sister's blond hair, cut into a chic bob. Her dark brown eyes were glassy with a combination of tears and shock. She barely reacted when Jordan, Woody, and Peter came into the bedroom.

"Stephanie," Woody knelt by the girl, "This is Dr. Cavanaugh and Dr. Winslow. They need to ask you some questions. Is that all right?"

Stephanie nodded mutely.

Jordan's heart twisted painfully for the girl, and she sat down beside her on the bed, "Stephanie. My name is Jordan. You sure you're okay? You all right to answer a few questions for us?"

She nodded again.

"Okay... was your sister into anything unusual?" 

Stephanie shook her head, opened her mouth as if to say something, then closed it.

"Stephanie? Was there something?" Jordan studied her.

The girl shrugged, "I don't know. That's the thing. We used to be really close, you know? But then she started dating Chris, and I didn't get to see her that often. When we did make plans, she'd either call me at the last minute, and say she couldn't come, or just blow me off. Like today."

"What was your opinion of Chris?" Peter asked.

"I didn't like him. I thought he was a rat, but what could I do? I told Jaime I thought he was bad news, but she loved him," Stephanie stared out the window down at the police cruisers, and began to cry softly, "And now she's dead."

"Well, we were right. The blows to the head did no damage to the skull." Jordan said, gazing at Chris Hammond and Jaime Black's X rays. 

"Terrific. Woody, you find anything on the boyfriend?" Peter asked.

The cop shook his head, "He doesn't have any priors. But we'll ask around."

Jordan looked over at Peter, "You ready?"

He pulled at his gloves, "Anytime you are."

They continued where they had left off. Jordan examining Jaime Black, Peter working on Chris Hammond. Woody leaning against the door, watching them, waiting patiently.

Jordan adjusted the light, then reached over to her tray of instruments, picked up a swab, and began to clean the knife wounds. 

"Looks like a large, non-serrated double-edged knife was used. Very sharp." Jordan said, as she probed the edges of Jaime's slashed throat. 

"Yep." Peter agreed from the other autopsy table.

She then scraped Jaime's fingernails in case the girl had managed to fight her attacker, although her hands looked clean. No signs of damage at all.

"There's traces of adhesive on her wrists and ankles. Kept her tightly restrained with tape, in addition to the rope," Jordan continued, "There's no sign of sexual assault."

"Thank God for small favors." Woody muttered.

"There's a great deal of swelling around the lower half of her face... hold on one second." Jordan said, and gently pried open Jaime's mouth. What she saw made her suck in a breath.

"What?" Peter asked.

"She's missing three teeth. Our killer pulled them," Jordan looked up, "Your guy missing any?"

He held up a finger, "Lemme check," he bent over, but stood back up almost immediately, "Nope. He's got all of his."

Woody stared down at Jaime Black, "Then why did the killer pull hers?"


	2. Running Away

Jordan was suturing the Y incision on Jaime Black when Woody's pager went off, startling in the silence of the autopsy lab.

He plucked it off of his belt, glanced at it, "Hold on. It's the precinct."

Jordan nodded.

He went out in search of a phone, and was only gone for a few minutes.

"They found a buddy of Chris Hammond's. I'm going to have a crack at him."

Jordan finished up the last stitch, then looked up at him, "I'm going with you."

Woody opened his mouth, perhaps to protest, but he knew it was exercise in futility to try. 

"Hey wait up! Don't think you're leaving me here." Peter said.

Woody shook his head, and groaned.

Jordan just smiled.

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Cody Banks lived in a small apartment that would've been called cozy if would've been well-kept. But due to neglect, it was nothing but a squat, ugly little house with peeling paint, and overgrown weeds in the yard.

Woody knocked on the door, and was greeted with silence.

Jordan looked at him, "Were your guys sure he was home?"

"Yeah. Positive."

Peter laughed, "Only fools are positive."

Suddenly, they were rewarded with a loud thump.

Woody threw Peter a smug look, "See?"

Finally, the door opened with a tortured creak, and a man stood there, blinking at us, "Yeah?"

"Mr. Banks?" Woody asked.

"Yeah?"

"I'm Detective Woodrow Hoyt . . . oh shit." Woody trailed off as Cody Banks turned tail at the mention 'detective'.

Woody shouted to Jordan and Peter, "You two, stay here." And took off after Cody Banks.

Jordan of course, didn't listen.

She stepped inside Cody's house, wrinkled her nose . . . and smiled.

"Hey Pete, you smell that?"

"Huh?" Peter was confused.

"I think I detect a hint of the herb . . . and not the kind used for cooking. That's probably why Cody ran from our good buddy Detective Hoyt." 

Peter took a deep sniff of the air, "Oh . . . yeah."

Jordan shook her head, her eyes wryly amused. 

They took a seat in Cody's living room, Jordan on an overstuffed rocking chair; Peter in a ripped couch, and took the liberty of turning on Cody's TV. They were still sitting there fifteen minutes later when Woody showed up, slightly out of breath, with a sweaty, dirty, cuffed Cody Banks in tow.

Jordan smiled, "Hey Woody. Been doing a little running?" 

He glared at her, "Shut up Jordan."

Peter turned to Cody Banks, "We got bored . . . decided to borrow your TV. Don't you love Jerry Springer?"

Cody was too out of breath to reply.

Jordan rolled her eyes, "It's such a wonderful show. Such high quality. The whole thing is 'You stupid freakin' 'ho, and you bitch, and I ain't your kid's daddy," she smiled, "Oh yeah, and 'beep, beep, beep."

Peter shook his head sadly, "Sarcasm is an ugly trait Cavanaugh."

Jordan's smile grew wider as she eyed Cody, "By the way, Cody, when Dr. Winslow and I came inside, and took a seat, we smelled something that's permeated your house and furniture. Call it the herb, if you will," she ran a hand through her silky hair, "Otherwise known as weed. Is that why you ran for it?"

Cody Banks was an emaciated kid, scraggly with unremarkable brown hair, and green eyes that was his best feature, Jordan decided. If they weren't glazed and bloodshot. 

He stared at Jordan and Peter for a moment, then looked up at Woody.

"You guys narcs?" he asked, his eyes bouncing back and forth nervously.

Peter rolled his eyes, "No, idiot. We're not narcs."

"This is about Chris Hammond and Jaime Black." Jordan said.

"What? Chris and me are buddies, but I don't sell him anything. He and Jaime use, but they don't get it off me." Cody said defensively.

Jordan stared at him for a moment. He wasn't acting, and he really didn't know that Chris and Jaime were dead.

"Chris Hammond and Jaime Black were murdered sometime early this morning. That's what we're here about." Woody told him.

Shock filled Cody's face, and he stared at them, as if waiting for them to say it was a joke.

"No, no, Chris can't be dead. I just talked to him. No." 

Jordan squatted by Cody's chair, "Cody, I know this is a big shock. But we need to ask you some questions, okay? To find out who killed them."

He still looked numb, but finally he nodded.

"You said Chris and Jaime did drugs? You're certain about that?"

Cody stared at his feet for a moment, then nodded, "Yeah. They've done it with me before."

"What kind of drugs?" Peter probed.

Cody swallowed hard.

"Cody!" Woody said sharply.

Jordan held up a hand, "I know this is hard, and you feel like you're selling out your friends. But every piece of information you give me . . . can help find their killer," She gazed at him, "Please, Cody."

He nodded, looked down at his lap, "At first, it was just weed, pills. But then we got into the harder stuff, like cocaine, heroin, ecstasy."

"And Chris and Jaime were into it, too?" 

"Chris and I did it together, then when he started dated Jaime, he got her involved."

Jordan closed her eyes. Stephanie Black was right about Chris Hammond. He hadn't been good for her sister.

"Did either of them owe to drug dealers? As a matter a fact, who was their dealer?"

Cody swallowed hard, and he looked deeply, truly afraid. In fact, he had begun to tremble.

"Mr. Banks?"

"If he finds out, I told you, I'm dead." He said softly.

"I promise, whoever it is, they won't find out it came from you . . . and I won't arrest your ass for running and having an illegal pharmacy in here." Woody promised.

"You serious?"

"As a heart attack. Now who was their dealer?"

Cody sank back in the chair, seeming to deflate, "His name's Tyrell McCabe."

Woody grinned, a shark's grin, "Excellent."

"What?"

"McCabe has some priors. It won't be very difficult getting _him _in for an interview."

"Cody, did Chris or Jaime have any arguments with anyone? A beef with somebody?"

He shook his head, greasy brown hair flying, "No."

"You've noticed nothing suspicious in the last few days?" Jordan was starting to think that Cody Banks was not going to be any help.

He confirmed that suspicion when he shook his head, "No. We'd hang out, got high . . . shit like that. But I never noticed anything weird . . . but maybe there was . . . "

Jordan touched his arm gently, "Can I give you a friendly piece of advice?"

He looked at her warily, not trusting them.

"Get your head out of your ass, and clean up your life. You keep this up, and there's a good chance you'll end up like Chris and Jaime. But you have a chance for better things if you quit doping around. So think about that..."

They left, leaving him hunched over in his chair, crying. Obviously whatever dope he had taken before they had come had worn off, no anesthesia-like numbness now. The pain was obviously deeper than anything he'd ever had to face before, and he was sobbing hard, face in his hands, like a child.

He looked abandoned.

As they walked out the door, his mouth opened, and the tears came faster, but the strange thing about it was he didn't make a sound.


	3. The First Suspect

"So . . . where we going?" Peter asked as he climbed into the backseat. Jordan glanced back at him, he was reminding her of an overanxious puppy.

"I thought we'd drop by my old buddy Tyrell." Woody said, turning the car around.

"Wow, an actual drug dealer. Cool." Peter remarked.

Jordan glanced back at him, "You're easily impressed, aren't you?"

He shrugged, "Simple guy, simple needs."

They traveled down past ramshackle houses that grew progressively worse as they drove.

"What his address?" Jordan asked absently as she stared out the window.

"A wonderful apartment complex in 237 Gardner Street in Dorchester," Woody grimaced, and glanced over at Jordan, "I've been there a few times. McCabe's killed at _least_ three people. That we know about. We suspect more."

"Then why isn't he in prison?" Jordan was aghast.

Woody shook his head, "Lack of evidence. All there was to link him to the crimes, was eyewitnesses, and they, unfortunately, disappeared before the trials."

Peter stretched out in the seat, "Sooo . . . let me rephrase my earlier statement. We're going to see a drug dealer who is also a stone-cold killer?"

"Yep, that's pretty much it." Woody agreed.

"Maybe you could just drop me back at the morgue?"

"Ah, don't be such a wuss." Jordan sneered.

They parked on the street, got out, evaluated the apartment.

"You're right. This apartment sucks. It's worse than Cody Banks'." Jordan remarked absently.

Woody glanced at the two of them, "Okay. Stay behind me, let me enter first, all right."

Jordan rolled her eyes, and snapped off a sarcastic salute, "Yes sir, master."

Woody shook his head at her, then proceeded to climb the splintered wooden stairs that led to McCabe's apartment.

Peter smiled at Jordan, and waved a hand, "Ladies first."

She moved past him, muttering "What a pussy."

"Hey, what did you say?"

She ignored him, and reached the top, stood behind Woody, who was knocking at the door.

The door opened almost immediately. Woody, Jordan could tell, was automatically bracing himself for a confrontation.

Tyrell McCabe was a tall, thin guy with dark hair cut so short, Jordan wondered why he bothered having any at all. A vicious-looking scar sliced down his left cheek, a testament to the life he lived, but it wasn't the most chilling part about him. No, she thought, that would be his eyes, gray-blue, cold, flat and unblinking as he stared at the trio on his porch.

There was not a speck of mercy, Jordan decided, in those eyes. Tyrell McCabe had no conscience.

A slow smile spread across his face, the look a cat gets as it batters a mouse around, "Why Detective Hoyt . . . what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

"I don't know if you've heard, but two of your customers got wasted."

The smile grew wider, "And you think I did it? Ahh, who was it?"

"Chris Hammond and Jaime Black."

The dealer shook his head, "No way would I kill them," he gave them a sly look, "They were regulars, if you get my drift."

Jordan was really starting to dislike this bastard.

"Where were you between the hours of 2:00 a.m. and 3:00?" she asked bluntly.

"And who might you be? Not that I'm complaining or anything . . . your ass is much finer than Detective Hoyt's."

She stared at him for a beat, "Someone who is much smarter than you . . . Dr. Cavanaugh, medical examiner. Now answer my damn question."

He glared at her, and Woody, hoping to smooth the waters, interjected, "Please answer her question, Tyrell."

"Out."

Jordan rolled her eyes, "Out _where_ dumbass?"

McCabe's eyes widened in shock. Perhaps he'd never been called a dumbass by a woman before. Or maybe it was possible he'd never been called a dumbass before in his life.

"A customer . . . bitch."

Woody shook his head, "Hey, watch it!"

Jordan simply smiled, "Thanks for the compliment. We're getting closer here, Tyrell. Now, what is the name of your _customer_?"

He continued to glare, but remarkably, answered the question, "David. David Kruger."

"What's his address?"

"He's got an apartment over at Lewis Wharf."

"Ritzy place." Jordan remarked.

"Yeah, whatever. Now get the fuck out." McCabe snapped.

Woody stepped closer, "Shut up. And don't be taking any trips . . . because we'll be having another chat, but this one will be in the station."

McCabe snorted, "Sure, but you know you'll be wasting your time," his eyes hardened, "So get the fuck out." He repeated.

"One of these days, you'll screw up Tyrell . . . and then your ass will be in prison. Then _you'll _be the bitch," Jordan smiled at him, "Have a nice day."

While he was still speechless, she turned around, and walked out. Woody and Peter looked at one another, then quickly followed.

Silence reigned until they were back in the car, and driving away from McCabe's.

"Damn Jordan, are you high! The guy's a three-time killer, and you call him stupid, a dumbass, and a bitch?" Woody stared at her for so long, he almost collided with another car.

"I did not call him a bitch, I said he would be a bitch. There's a difference." She replied calmly, fighting back a smirk.

"You think this is funny? She's thinking it's funny." Woody shook his head.

Peter shrugged, "What can I say? I think's she's nuts, but you've known her longer than I have."

Jordan held up a hand, "Relax Woody. If I pegged him right, he's too macho to come after a woman."

He rolled his eyes.

"Are we going to see David Kruger?" Peter asked from the backseat.

"Not yet. I thought I'd go run him through the computer, see what pops out." Woody said.

"Well, don't go without us." Jordan said, staring at him seriously.

"Okay."

"I mean it, Woody. You do, and . . . I don't know what I'll do, but remember, I do have access to sharp instruments, like scalpels for instance."

"Ouch . . . I swear I will not go to interview David Kruger without you."

"Hey, what am I, the invisible man back here?" Peter interjected.

"Okay, I will not go interview David Kruger without you and Peter," he glanced back, "Happy?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Drop us back off then. I've got some work to finish."

Woody stopped in front of the M.E.'s building, and Jordan and Peter climbed out.

Jordan stopped, leaned back in, "But Woody, remember my threat about the scalpels if you "forget" to come pick us up. 'Cause I'll start with your balls first." She smiled cheerfully, gave a little wave, and walked into the building.


	4. The Blow Up

Jordan was in her office, finishing up on paperwork on her heart attack victim, Mr. Paul Cromwell, when Woody waltzed into her office.

She smiled, "Detective Hoyt, I'm glad to see you. Means I don't have to drag out my scalpels," she paused, "Did you find anything?"

Woody grinned triumphantly, shooting a fist in the air, "Mr. Kruger has a old warrant out for his arrest... drugs, of course."

Just then, Peter burst into the office, "Hey, you guys talking without me?"

Woody rolled his eyes, "No, all I said was that David Kruger has a old warrant out for his arrest... meaning we can drag his ass in."

"Still that's talking without me."

Woody threw his hands up, "I give up. Let's go."

David Kruger's apartment was a very large, upscale building, immaculately kept. The lawn was trimmed obsessively neat, timed sprinklers spraying the lush green. A gleaming, brand-new red Porsche 911 stood parked on the curb.

A rich asshole, Jordan thought, wiping sweat from her forehead. The day had turned unseasonably hot.

Woody turned to Jordan and Peter, "I go in the first. We clear on this?"

Jordan turned to Peter, "You have the sneaking suspicion that maybe he was Hitler in a past life? He does enjoy ordering people around."

He planed his hands on his hips, "I'm serious Jordan. I don't want you dead."

She smiled, "Woody, I'm touched by your concern."

He continued to stare at her.

"Okay, okay. I will remain on the stairs, until you call me, sir."

So it was almost a repeat of Tyrell McCabe's. Woody crept cautiously up the stairs, Jordan following, her dark eyes alight with curiosity. Peter at the rear, looking like he wasn't sure if he wanted to be here.

Woody reached the top; knocked, waited a few moments.

A cautious male voice came through the door, "Yes?"

"David Kruger?"

"Yes."

"This is the Boston Police Department. You have a warrant out for your arrest, sir. For possession of an illegal substance."

There was silence on the other side of the door.

"Mr. Kruger?"

"I'm sorry. I'm here."

"Could you open the door, sir?" Woody took a step closer.

A heavy sigh could be heard, "Fine. All right."

There was a rattle as Kruger unlatched the deadbolt, then he yanked the door open.

Jordan had been expecting another Cody Banks, but she received a surprise.

David Kruger wasn't very tall, probably only about 5'8, slender, and was wearing neatly pressed black slacks and a silk shirt.

He had curly dark brown hair, soft, sad-looking brown eyes, and a rather handsome face.

He also looked totally miserable.

"Come in."

So they did, Woody first, of course, then Jordan, Peter last.

David Kruger stood there for a moment, "Please, sit if you'd like."

"Thank you." Jordan, Peter, and Woody all took a seat on the sofa, while David Kruger sat in a overstuffed chair.

Woody joined the conversation again, "I'm Detective Woodrow Hoyt, sir. This is Dr. Jordan Cavanaugh and Dr. Peter Winslow."

Kruger gazed at Jordan and Peter, "Doctors?"

"We're from the M.E.'s office." Jordan supplied.

"Oh..." then Kruger's gaze narrow, "I thought this was about my warrant?"

"Actually, we just said that to get in here. You _do _have a warrant out for your arrest, however. But we need to talk to you about two homicides that occurred early this morning."

Kruger's face paled, "Homicides? Who?"

"Christopher Hammond and Jaime Black."

His already pale turned the color of milk, "Chris and Jaime? They're dead?"

Jordan nodded, "I'm afraid so."

He was shaking his head in disbelief, "How?"

Jordan didn't want to give any of the details of the murder away, so she said simply, "They were both stabbed."

"Oh...god." he buried his head in his hands. Started to cry.

Peter watched him, "How did you know them? Did Tyrell McCabe introduce you?"

Kruger froze.

"We already know about McCabe. He gave us your name. Said he was with you at the time of the murders."

He hesitated.

Woody walked over to him, "Look, if you help us out, I'll lose the warrant, okay?"

He nodded, and swallowed hard, "No, McCabe didn't introduce us. I grew up with Jaime... we're... we were best friends."

"Did Jaime have any enemies?"

Kruger laughed, "Jaime? No. She was the sweetest, most caring person you could ever meet. I know it sounds corny, but she was one of the people that was beautiful inside _and _out."

"Who liked to do drugs?" Woody asked, with a raised eyebrow.

Kruger stared at him, "Don't drag her through the mud. You don't know what it's like. Chris got her addicted to them."

Jordan happened to glance over at Peter, who stared straight ahead. She had never said anything, never let on that she knew that he once had a drug problem. This conversation was obviously rubbing raw nerves.

"Where were you between the hours of 2:00 and 3:00 a.m. this morning?" Woody asked idly, walking around Kruger's living room.

There was a small pause, "What- you think I killed Jaime? I would never hurt her. Or Chris. She was my best friend." His voice was filled with disbelief.

"Where were you?" Woody asked again, his voice harder.

Kruger sighed, "If you talked to McCabe, you know goddamn well where I was. Right here, with him."

"Getting drugs?" Jordan asked innocently.

Kruger said nothing. His silence answered for him.

"Look, you look like a nice guy. You wanna screw up your life?" Woody asked.

Kruger paused, and his face was contorted with agony, "But you don't know how hard it is! I've tried, and I-I can't stop."

"Yes, you could if you tried." Peter said quietly.

Kruger glared at him, "How would you know? You people don't know anything!"

That did it for Peter. He stood, eyes aflame, "I don't know, huh? I used to be _you_, only caring about my next fix. In fact, it cost me my ex-wife. She was an addict too, she overdosed. It almost cost me my medical career... luckily, I ended up at the medical examiner's, but I _was _studying to be a surgeon. So don't give me that fucking bullshit!"

Kruger stared at him, speechless, mouth agape.

Peter was breathing heavily, eyes still sparkling with anger.

Jordan and Woody exchanged glances. Woody was obviously surprised, Jordan shrugged, shook her head minutely.

"I-I..." Kruger stuttered, trying to talk, but then fell silent.

"I'm outta here." Peter announced, and stalked out of the apartment.

Woody stood, "Well... Mr. Kruger, thank you for your time. If we have any more questions," his voice hardened, "I assume you'll be here?"

"W-what? Oh, yes."

Jordan hurried outside, Woody at her heels.

Peter was sitting in the car.

"Sorry," he said quietly, staring at his hands, "I kinda lost it back there."

Jordan swallowed, torn between the feeling to scold and comfort. The need to comfort won.

"It's okay. He deserved it anyway," she hesitated, "You okay?"

"I'm fine. Just had to blow off some steam."

"You sure?" Woody asked, from the driver's seat.

"Yeah Woody. By the way, back there..."

"Yeah?" Woody asked expectantly.

"I didn't know a person's eyeballs could bulge out that far."


End file.
